#wof bbc

[fireflowersandblood]

Letters From Home - Chapter One

Pairing: Tom Bennet x f!reader

WC: ~2600 words

TWs/Warnings: Strong language, adult themes

Summary: The first letter from Tom Bennet arrives, and you desperately try to compose a reply.

masterlist │ preview │ chapter one

The days pass just like they did before the war, and you spend most of them like most women do these days: you wake up, you knit on the bus, you work, you knit on the bus home, you have supper, you knit, and you go to bed. Sunday mornings are for knitting in church, and Tuesday evenings are for knitting at the library, but little else changes.

It’s on one of those Tuesday evenings that you find the letter. When you’ve unlocked the door and stepped inside, you find the usual pile of letters by the door and lean down to pick them up. There’s one from your mother, two bills, and… one you don’t recognize. The written words are messy and you hurry inside, throwing your handbag and the rest of the post on the table.

Surely, there is only one reason a stranger and your mother would write at the same time. You don’t bother looking for your letter opener, only rip one side of the envelope open and tug out the paper within. You can hardly breathe, when you flip the sheer paper over and read it.

Good day, ma’am

I hope this letter finds you well. You did say I could write, so here I am. My name’s Tom, and if the date on your letter is correct, I’m twenty three this month. Been fighting since ´39 and your package was the first I ever received. Got a letter from my sister once, but she only told me to bugger off already. That was in training. 

Your tense shoulders drop somewhat. If it’s not about your brother being killed or hurt… At first, you’re certain the letter must’ve been sent wrong, but when you have another look, the envelope says both your name and your address. Then, when you continue to read, it finally clicks.

The pullover fits perfectly and the socks have come to good use. Both pairs. Haven’t used the hat much yet, but it muffles the sound of my bunkmates snoring. Think you’ve earned your George Cross.

Swear the lollies you sent are from the same store my mother frequented when I was a child. Been hard to keep them to myself, though. Men are greedy bastards, aren’t they? 

I can’t tell you much about what we do or where we are. Captain’s orders. I can, however, ask you how you are. We get news from home ever so often, and we heard about the recent bombings. I hope you’re alright. I’d miss your knitting if you’re not. 

I swear I’m not only writing to thank you for the socks, I also write because I fully expect another pair. 

Cheers, 

Tom

P.S. I’m joking about the socks. I do want to thank you, but I don’t actually expect another pair. Had to add this bit, my superior thought I was being too harsh on you. 

You stare at the page. The handwriting is messy and there’s holes where the pen has pierced it, but it’s here and that’s somehow enough. A warm feeling settles inside your chest, and for a moment you think of nothing but this Tom that is half a world away, fighting a war, and has still found time to write to you. 

You find that you have a million questions. You want to ask if the socks fit, and if the George Cross really is what you think it is, and if he likes the perfume, and if he likes the candy. You want to ask him if his rations involve any decent chocolate or cigarettes, because all the good ones are impossible to get a hold of here, at home.

Even though there’s a million things you should be doing, you leave the rest of the post and your handbag on the kitchen table to look for some nice paper. For a moment, you consider using a sheer, pink one you found in a bookstore before the war, but think better of it. Surely, the thin paper will only be damaged and perhaps even unreadable. You settle for the same thick, white paper you used last time. Armed with paper and your favorite pen, you sit down to write. 

The morning comes too quickly. Your body aches after a hard day’s work and no sleep, yet the paper in front of you lies empty. You have tried all night, and you’ve even balled up two letters and thrown them on the floor. In the back of your head, you hear your mother lecture you for it, but you justify it by telling yourself they’re toys for the stray cat that you feed. 

Everything needs to be rationed. Stop trying to make it work. Just write. 

It’s easier said than done. You have no idea what to tell the bloke or how to cheer him up. According to his letter, you’re both fairly close in age, which means it should be easier, but it’s not. All you can think of is the way your father’s face changes when there’s a loud sound or on especially cold and dark evenings. 

Some part of you doesn't want to write back. If you do, there’s just another person for you to worry about. You had been certain there would be no response, and now that it’s here, you wish you had never asked for one. Tom Bennett is a person to care for, one that you cannot fit into your already busy schedule. 

At the same time, you don’t have the heart not to. You would hate to leave him waiting, wanting, needing a distraction from home that'll never come. If only you had realized how much of a responsibility it would feel like when you sent that first letter…

Before you can continue, you hear the distant alarm clock from your bedroom. You rise on legs that throb with a dull pain and decide to leave the letter for tonight. It’ll occupy your mind for the rest of the day, no matter what, and you have to get ready for work. 

Once you’re dressed and ready to leave, you have one last look at the empty paper and suddenly remember the letter from your mother. You grab it, together with your usual knitting, and head for the bus.

Doris, one of your friends from school, waits for you at the bus station. She smiles when she sees you, waves with one hand and tugs you into an embrace the second you come close enough. A small chuckle leaves you, and you hug her back.

“You look terrible”, Doris says, and as soon as she pulls back, she sticks her thumb in her mouth, sucks for a moment, then leans in to furiously scrub at the day-old makeup on your face. Desperately, you try to duck away from her, but she’s quicker. Before she can even think to pull at your hair, the bus has stopped next to you.

Both of you hop on, pay for your tickets and sit in the far back. She looks through her handbag, mutters something about how she can never find anything, and pulls out her makeup bag. She clicks her makeup mirror open and hands it to you.

“I couldn’t sleep”, you confess. “I…”

Doris interrupts. 

“Is it your brother?”

You have to bite back a laugh.

“No”, you reply. “Are you still sweet on him?”

Doris has the decency to look puzzled at the question, and immediately turns away. She doesn’t have to reply for you to know the answer, but you don’t press further. You find it rather sweet, in truth, but you don’t say that, either. You and Doris have known each other since you were both in nappies, and Doris has had a thing for your brother since the two of you were old enough to know what that meant. 

By the time you’ve touched up your makeup and saved your hair from complete disaster, Doris has picked up her own knitting. Her handbag stands between the two of you and you easily slide the makeup bag and mirror back.

The ward is near empty, and for once you can work in relative peace. The radio is on, but you can’t make out any of the mumblings from the other side of the room. It’s better that way, you reckon, because you don’t have to hear the most recent news from whatever battlefield the reporters have had a misfortune to hear from today. You think it cruel, to leave the radio on when the wounded men in the beds have just barely escaped that hell with their lives, but have gotten one too many slaps on the wrist by the doctor to say anything. 

Doris and two of the other nurses have taken most of the men to the courtyard. You’d like to imagine that the doctor has joined them, to keep an eye on the progress of the wounded soldiers learning to walk or talk anew, but you’re almost certain he has locked himself in the office to read or listen to his own radio. That, too, makes your blood boil, but you can’t do without a job.

Sure, there’s always the factories… but you’re almost entirely certain the men will want their jobs back when they return and have recovered, and you’ll need a job just as bad when the war is over as you do now. 

By the time you have changed half the beds in the ward, one of the two soldiers that has been left inside calls for you.

“Nurse”, he calls, not unkindly, and even lets you finish the bed you’re working on. You only leave him waiting for a few minutes before you come closer.

It’s a horrid sight. The man can’t be much older than you are, but he looks older. The dark bags under his eyes, the sharp lines and cuts of his face, the worn look he always wears, his glassy eyes… You’re suddenly thankful for the thick gauze that is wrapped around both of his hands, which had been little but mangled pieces of flesh when he was first brought to the hospital.

“Albert”, you greet, with what you hope is soft confidence. “I thought Doris took you outside.”

He laughs, and you’re thankful for it. It’s a rare sound here, and it does perk you up somewhat.

“I don’t think Doris likes me much”, he says, but even this is kind. His smile is tight, but you can’t tell if it’s because of the pain he must be in or because he knows that even Doris thinks he looks scary. “I hope you don’t feel the same. Would you sit with me for a moment?”

“I could never dislike you, Albert”, you promise, and carefully sit on the edge of his bed. He scoots over as much as he can and one arm extends to the nightstand. Someone has left him paper and a pen, and you immediately reach for it.

“For my mother”, he explains, and you’re sure he’s about to explain that he can’t write, even though you already know that much. You had, after all, seen both what was left of his hands and the mess of his body when he was brought in.

So much for trying to escape the war for a week, you think, and shudder at the thought of how home isn’t even safe anymore. 

“Let’s write”, you interrupt him, as kindly as possible, and settle the paper against the nightstand to be able to write. “For your mother?”

Albert nods.

“Yes. Tell her that I was hurt in London, during my leave. She will know what it means, I am sure. Granny is well, I was in a pub when it happened.”

He trails off and lets you write, and the silence is only interrupted by the awful blaring of the radio. You wonder what kind of cheap crap it must be, then feel awful for even thinking such a thing. Perhaps, just this once, it is not a fault of the doctor, but of the war.

“Despite it all, I am well. The doctor is a bit of a bellend, but the nurses are lovely, and the prosthetics have improved greatly since father lost his leg in the first war.”

You have to bite your bottom lip not to laugh, but you think Albert notices the smile on your lips regardless. His voice doesn’t sound quite as grave when he continues.

“With any luck, I’ll be back home soon. I don’t think I’ll be much help to the war effort with only two fingers, but someone has to be the Tin Man for spring break. I don’t see why that couldn’t be me.”

This time a small laugh escapes before you can even try to suppress it. Albert seems almost as pleased by that as you were with his laugh earlier.

“One of the nicer nurses is writing for me”, he says, and you quickly scribble it down. “It’s the reason it doesn’t look right. I hope you’re well, mom. I miss you, and I miss Leslie. I’ve attached two pounds, I hope it’s enough to treat her to some chocolate. Most love, your Betty.”

You sign the letter in silence. Another moment of silence follows, and you wonder if you should write something else. Perhaps you could add a small paragraph, with the medical details, and the progress he has already made. You realize how ridiculous it is when Albert grabs for the envelope and somehow manages to get a hold of it, despite the thick gauze.

He tells you the address and you write it as neatly as you can.

“Would you perhaps post it for me?” he asks, and for the first time today you hear some sort of doubt in his voice. He hesitates, and continues in a much quieter voice. “I don’t trust the receptionist not to take the money in the envelope.”

The shock must be evident on your face, because he immediately leans closer to the nightstand to open the drawer. He struggles, grimaces, then manages to open it enough for you to see the wallet within. 

“I’ll pay you for it.”

You quickly shake your head.

“You don’t have to pay me”, you hurry to say, but you reach out for the wallet and take it. It feels wrong to open it, but you do and pull out the two pounds he had told his mother of, before you fold it over once and tuck it away in the envelope. Then, you close it. “I’ll do it. I have a letter of my own to post, anyway.”

Your little break from changing the sheets have reminded you of both the letter from your mother, and the letter from the Tom that had gotten your knitted garments. You leave the envelope on the nightstand for now.

“I’ll be back for it before the day is over”, you promise, and very gently squeeze one of Albert’s upper arms. “Now, I, unfortunately, have to keep working.”

Albert laughs again, when you stand and help him to settle in the middle of the bed again. Before you leave, you help him drink some water from the glass that stands by the envelope. Just as you turn around, you’re reminded of something.

“Actually, Albert”, you say, and turn back around to have a look at him. “What did you want to hear from home? When you were fighting?”

Albert’s lips tug up in a rare grin that reaches his eyes, and he pats the edge of the bed where you had just been sitting. 

[cheesuschrist-iii]

I’m cooking something up so have a Burn drawing I did a while ago in the meantime.

I’ll probably finish the thing I’m working on only because I’m unintentionally using it to procrastinate some sewing I was gonna do.

Also a bonus Burnlet sketch because toxic Yuri my beloved.

[idkman-ijustwannamakeatournament]

Round 1 - Match 1

"Two Sides of the Same Coin"- Two things that are regarded as part of the same thing. Even if they're very different, they have at least one common thread that helps them fit into this trope.

Propaganda:

Merlin and Arthur:

"I mean it's like literally half the plot. That dragon ass bitch cannot stop reminding everyone about them being two sides of the same coin"

Qibli and Darkstalker:

"The author has stated Darkstalker is like a "dark mirror" of Qibli, because they are both desperate to be liked by everyone. Initially, Qibli doesn't even see the issue with a hypothetical magic spell to make everyone like him, until his friend pointed out it's wrong to take away other dragons' free will. However, Darkstalker never learns that lesson, and commits many horribly evil acts he believes to be justified. The climax of the whole arc comes when Darkstalker offers to give Qibli magical powers in exchange for a spell that means Qibli could never harm Darkstalker, and Qibli bravely refuses."

[pseudocyance]

TIS THE LAST 4 HOURS OF THE MONTH OF THE GAYS

HERE IS A LIST OF MY FAVORITE GAYS FROM MEDIA (canon and not canon)

C!Scar and C!Grian from Hermitcraft/traffic life

Link and Sidon from BotW/TotK

Sundew and Willow from Wings of Fire

Sherlock and Watson from BBC Sherlock (though all other versions are also good)

Luz and Amity from The Owl House

Nick and Charlie from Heartstopper (confession I personally don't like heartstopper but it's amazing representation for the lgbtqia+ community and the author is fabulous)

Wylan and Jesper from Six of Crows

Crowley and Aziraphale from Good Omens

Jack Harkness from Doctor Who/Torchwood (idk who to pair him with he flirts with everyone)

Madame Vastra and Jenny from Doctor Who

EVERYONE in She Ra

Adam from The Hollow (I don't like any of his ships sorry lol)

Some other requests from my friends that I don't know that well:

Keith and Lance from Voltron (pretty sure this was a joke but they're still 🏳️‍🌈 I think)

Aristotle and Dante from Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe/Dive Into the Waters of the World

Everyone from Dead Boy Detectives

John and Martin from TMA

[humanpurposes]

Just for a Moment, part i

Tom Bennett has a habit of climbing through her bedroom window whenever he's in trouble // Main Masterlist

Tom Bennett x OFC

Warnings: 18+, mentions of war and death, friends to lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut

Words: 3800

A/n: Me? Starting another series to avoid updating ongoing fics? No wayyyy. This is going to be a 4 part mini series and their song is When the Sun Hits by Slowdive, just so you know. Also available to read on AO3.

Tom Bennett had always had a talent for getting under people’s skin.

Kitty knew it when they were kids, when they’d run around the streets of Longsight and the alleyways behind Slade Grove. He would rile anyone up, regardless if they were older or bigger than him. He didn’t even do it for a reason, he just liked to get a raise out of people.

He used to tease her too, for all sorts of stupid reasons, because she was a year younger than him, because her mother used to dress her in shirts and shorts that used to belong to her older brothers, because when they’d buy bags of Yorkshire mix from the shop, she would only eat the red ones. Every Sunday after Church, they’d sit in the park or on the front step of the Bennetts’ house, and Tom would pick out every sweet he knew she liked, and keep the rest for himself.

When Tom was eleven he moved to the big school, where Kitty’s brothers all went, Eddie, Art and Stevie. Eddie was a prefect. He used to come home with all sorts of stories of Tom Bennett, ‘from over the road’. Tom talked back to his teachers, disrupted assemblies, picked fights with other kids, every offence Kitty’s mind could imagine. 

It only got worse when his mam died.

Thursday 12th July, 1928

Kitty had never been to a funeral before. She had a new dress and a black overcoat for the occasion. It was cold in the church graveyard, overcast and windy. Mam had held her hand so tightly she wondered if she’d ever get it back. 

The Bennetts stood together, on the other side of the grave. Lois’ hair was braided into a messy plait that stuck out on one side, the ribbon at the end tied into a knot rather than a bow. She was trying to hold her father’s shoulder as he cried, but she couldn’t quite reach. Tom stood a little further away from his father. His hair was messy, his knees scabbed and bruised, his shirt skewed and the buttons done in the wrong places.

Kitty kept her eyes on him, all through the service, the burial and the wake back at number 27. Tom didn’t cry once.

That night, when she should have been asleep, she lay awake in her bed, listening to her brothers whispering and in the next room as they always did. Sometimes she felt sad to be left out of their antics, but tonight she was glad to be on her own, in her little box room at the front of the house.

Until she heard a tapping on the window.

She froze between her sheets. Was it too late for it to have been a bird?

And then it came again, tap, tap, tap.

With a determined little huff, she rose from the bed, smoothed her hands down the front of her nightgown and drew back the curtains.

“Tom?” she whispered.

He grinned when he saw her, perched on the windowsill behind the glass. 

Kitty raised the window and before she could invite him in he was crawling through it.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

Tom shrugged and went to sit on the edge of her bed. He glanced around the room, at the little shelf of books, dolls and small wooden animals, the black overcoat hung on the back of the door and the drawings stuck to the wardrobe. He’d been in the Wheelans’ kitchen before, but he’d never been allowed upstairs.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, far too loudly for Kitty’s liking.

She pressed a firm finger against his lips. She held her breath, waiting for one of the lads to notice, but they kept on chatting– whatever it was teenage boys chatted about.

“Keep your voice down,” she said.

Tom smiled against her finger and made a cross over his heart.

She sat beside him, swaying her legs while she tried to think of something to say.

Tom reached for a book on her bedside table and flicked through the pages. When he was bored of that, he grabbed her teddy. He tossed it about in his hands and ran his hands over the ancient and matted fur. It had been Eddie’s, back in the day. Every single one of her brothers had owned it before her.

“I don’t like seeing my dad cry,” Tom said.

Kitty frowned. “Why not?”

“I just don’t like it. He’s always been a bit…”

Dad had often mentioned the case of Douglas Bennett. They had fought in the same regiment in 1914. When Micheal Wheelan came back from war, he returned as a self-proclaimed hero. His boys loved to hear his stories and take turns wearing his medals. Douglas Bennett had returned to Manchester a far more troubled kind of man.

“And with mum he–” but he stopped himself with an irritated grunt. “Can I stay here?”

“What?” 

“Not forever, I just… can I sit here, just for a moment?”

Kitty took the teddy from him and placed her hand firmly in his. “That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it?”

From then on, Tom made quite a habit of appearing at the window and hiding in her room whenever he was in trouble.

Saturday 2nd September, 1939

Being up and out before the boys are awake is a strange feeling, it’s the only time the house is so quiet.

It’s just before dawn. The sky is a hazy shade of dark blue but an orange glow is starting to appear over the rooftops. Mr Gregory wants her in the shop early to help with a delivery.

Something draws her eyes from her black leather shoes on the pavement, up to the end of the street. A figure makes his way down Slade Grove. She recognises the sway of his shoulders and the end of a lit cigarette in his mouth.

“Alright, pretty Kitty?” Tom says when they’re in earshot of each other, taking the cigarette between his fingers. “What are you doing up so late?”

“It’s early,” she says. He’s in a jacket and slacks, and he has a dazed sort of look in his eyes. She can guess where he’s been but it doesn’t stop her from asking. “What have you been up to?”

“Don’t give me that look,” he says, taking another drag. He tilts his chin up and exhales the smoke above their heads through pouted lips. “Just been down the pub, nothing scandalous.”

A likely story. She’s seen the police knocking on their front door twice in four weeks.

“How’s your job in the shop going?” he asks.

It was supposed to be temporary, a little money to make ends meet after dad got laid off from the factory. Six months later and she’s still there. 

“Grand,” she says.

“Can you do me mates rates on a packet of Marlboros?”

“Yeah, if you promise to actually buy them.”

He clutches his chest and his face lights up in an ironic expression. “Of course, what sort of man do you take me for?”

The sort who used to sell cigarettes in the schoolyard— God knows how he got his hands on them in the first place. At that age he could talk himself out of anything. That’s what makes Tom Bennett every parent’s worst nightmare, he’s a troublemaker with pretty blue eyes and an infectiously charming smile.

“I should get going,” she says, taking another step until Tom moves in front of her. Her eyes meet with the collar of his jacket and the hollow of his throat. She can smell the musk of the pub on him, the cigarette smoke and the faded scent of his aftershave.

She looks up to his face and his expression has changed, not quite smiling but amused, smug and somewhat severe.

“What?” she says impatiently.

“Nothing,” he says, unphased, “have a good shift.”

The morning drags on at a gruelling pace. Mr Gregory’s getting on a bit now so Kitty has to do a lot of the heavy lifting, piling boxes into the storage room round the back, going through the stock in the shop, filling the shelves, flattening the boxes and bringing them to the bins outside. It feels like hours of work, but when she looks at the clock it’s not even 9. Eight hours until closing. Mr and Mrs Gregory live above the shop, so at least she gets a steady supply of tea, toast and bits of carrot cake.

By the afternoon she feels her eyes start to close. The morning rush is over now and business will dwindle for the rest of the day. She tries to stay awake, fanning herself with her blouse and nibbling on little mouthfuls of cake.

The bell above the door rings. She straightens her spine and smooths down her apron, ready to put on her best customer service voice, only for Tom Bennett to swagger in through the door.

He’s changed his clothes and donned a blue jacket instead of the earthy green she had seen him in earlier.

“Did you get enough sleep?” Kitty asks at the heavy look under his eyes.

He grins it off. “Packet of Marlboros please, Miss Wheelan.”

She fetches them from the cabinet behind the counter and places the packet in front of him. His aftershave smells a little stronger now. “Anything else?”

He drums his fingers against the counter, looking around innocently at the array of chocolate bars and the jars of sweets behind her.

“I’ll have a bag of Yorkshire mix,” he says.

She takes the jar down from the shelf. She can hear him breathing steadily through his nose as she scoops the sweets into a paper bag. When she turns back around he’s watching her.

“Nine pence,” she says, swallowing down a nervous feeling in her throat.

Tom counts through some change from his pocket and drops the coins into her hands, a sixpence and a thruppence. His fingertips brush over her palms and his knuckles are scabbed over. She dreads to think why.

“Nice one,” he says once she puts the payment through the till. “What do you make of this stuff going on in Poland then?” he says, popping a pear drop into his mouth.

She’s only been reading the headlines of the papers when she stocks them in the shop every morning, or hearing snippets from dad’s radio. 

“Since when did you start taking an interest in foreign affairs?” she asks.

He reaches into the bag and pulls out a raspberry. “Been reading the news, haven’t I?” he says, holding it out for her. 

She hesitates for a moment before she takes it. She lets the sugar melt over her tongue. It tastes like summer afternoons after school and weekends in the park, tearing at the grass and watching the boys play football because they’d never let her join in.

“That’s where Harry is, isn’t it?” she says, “Lois must be worried.

Tom tuts and tucks the bag into his pocket. “Posh boys can talk their way out of anything,” he says. “Speaking of, I met Madge’s new man last night.”

“At the pub?”

“Yeah. Right ponce in’t he?”

She purses her lips in irritation. She hates it when he does this, poking fun at others until he feels better about himself. “He’s training to be a barrister.”

“Like I said.”

She shrugs. “I suppose there are worse jobs to have.”

“Is that what you’ll do then? Find some rich boy with a big house and stick up his arse?”

It’s not quite the future she has planned out for herself. Her friend Madge is a secretary in Manchester. There are all sorts of exams she had to pass, but it could be doable. Mam’s always tried to put her off it though. “Parents need their girls,” she says.

“I don't think I’m likely to find any of those in Longsight. Maybe I should ask Lois for advice?” she says, trying not to smile.

“Steady there, Kitty, I didn’t mean to get you all excited,” he says, leaning into the counter. His voice is lower all of a sudden, it sends an odd, jittery feeling though her chest and stomach.

He winks at her before he turns and leaves. The bell rings and the shop is quiet again.

Her feet feel heavy when she walks through the front door. Her bed calls her name but she’s unbearably thirsty. Saturdays are half days and the boys are already home from the factory. Mam’s started on dinner and the others are around the kitchen table. 

Dad waves a blue leaflet at her. “One of Douglas Bennett’s pacifist… things,” he says.

“Do you really think there’ll be a war, dad?” Kitty says, shrugging off her coat.

“If there is, it won’t be long,” he says with a determined nod, “no one wants another war.”

Eddie and Art hum in agreement. The oldest of the four Wheelan siblings, they were born before dad went away to war. Their faces are older and more stern, like they can still remember a time when they didn’t have their father around. They still call Stevie and Kitty “the babies,” which she thinks must make them feel more important.

Stevie’s in good spirits though. “Ran into Lois and Connie on the bus, and Connie personally invited me to their gig tonight!” he says brightly.

“Come off it,” Art grumbles, “she was just being friendly.”

“Kitty!” Stevie sings, waltzing over to her. He takes her coat from her hands and twirls her around the kitchen, to mam’s despair. “Come to the Fiddler’s Bow with me tonight, please.”

“So you can ditch me for Connie once their set’s done?”

“There’ll be other people there,” Stevie says, turning her around to face their brothers, “or ask one of these grumpy bastards to join us.”

“Stephen Wheelan!” their mother chides.

Eddie and Art share a pointed look and shake their heads, already backing away towards the front room.

In the end she decides she’ll just have to brave it. After eating, she changes into a flowy, white blouse and an emerald green skirt, pinning her hair up so it won’t go everywhere as she moves. She hides a tube of lipstick inside her purse. Mam and dad would rather die than let her leave the house with makeup. She only owns a lipstick because Lois Bennett had given her one.

Stevie brushes up well, in a white shirt and freshly shined leather shoes, his hair slicked back with wax. They run into each other on the landing and race downstairs.

Mam gives them the usual instructions. Home by 11 o'clock and not a minute later. One drink each. No smoking. No noise when they get in. 

Stevie’s already pulling a packet of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket when they’re halfway through the front door.

And Kitty’s breath hitches when, for the third time that day, she sees Tom Bennett. He’s hovering in the doorway, putting empty milk bottles out. When he notices them, he smiles. “Off somewhere nice?” he says.

“Fiddler’s Bow,” Stevie calls back, “to see Lois and Connie play.”

“She’s down there already,” Tom says, his eyes flickering to Kitty for only a moment, “left half an hour ago.”

He’s in a white t-shirt now, that’s just a little too tight against his torso.

“Why don’t you join us?” Kitty says without thinking it through. “Stevie’s going for Connie, I’ll need a partner once he ditches me.”

Tom looks down at the pavement. His lips are thin and his hands fidget by his side. “I’ve um… got something else on tonight, ‘m sorry.”

Her heart sinks. Any lighthearted hope she had about enjoying the evening dissolves right in front of her. Right, of course, because why would he actually want to spend more than a few moments with her?

“Movin’ on,” Stevie says, steering Kitty down the road with a brief farewell to Tom. “He’s no good, you know that?” he whispers in her ear. “Eddie says he nicks scrap metal from the yard, sells it to all sorts dodgy fuckers.”

“Yeah, I know,” she breathes. Her chest feels tight and suddenly she feels like she wants to cry.

Stevie has a good time at the gig. Lois and Connie are first in the lineup and once their set is over, Stevie makes a point of cheering the loudest. The four of them spend the rest of the night dancing.

When Stevie and Connie disappear outside for a smoke, Kitty drags Lois to the bar, to catch their breath and down glasses of tonic water. Lois drones on about her Harry issue, but having three older brothers who presume every word they say is profound and worthy of note, Kitty knows where to hum and nod without really listening.

They walk Connie home first before the three of them make their way to Slade Grove. The houses are quiet now, save for a few lights in the windows, creeping through drawn curtains. Two policemen are standing outside number 27.

“Have you seen your brother?” one of them calls to Lois when she reaches the door.

“No,” Lois says, “but if you see him before I do, will you tell him he’s in trouble?”

Kitty meets Stevie’s eyes and he raises his brows.

“Piss off,” she grumbles.

Mam and dad have gone to bed, but Eddie and Art are playing cards in the front room— or they should be. Eddie is standing by the window, peering through the curtains. 

“Who are they after?” Eddie asks.

“Who do you think?” Kitty mutters, but she doesn’t stay to hear another rant about ‘troublesome Tom Bennett’, and slips her shoes off before she makes her way upstairs.

It can’t be said Tom doesn’t make an impression on the people he meets. Mam and dad still have a soft spot for him, though less so since he’s started getting into trouble with the police, and the lads seem to outright despise him.

She’d be lying if she said he didn’t find him irritating, to a certain degree. Maybe it’s because he’s cocky, maybe it’s because he used to be surprisingly sweet, or maybe it’s because nothing seems to phase him, but something about Tom Bennett makes her restless.

She wipes off her lipstick, takes out the pins in her hair and changes into her nightgown. Her eyes feel heavy, but tomorrow is Sunday, which means the shop will be closed and she can have a whole day of ‘freedom’, so long as that includes helping with the laundry and the dinner.

Dad’s snores are evident and the boys are still distracted downstairs, they’ve even put the radio on by the sound of it.

She’s about to turn off the light when she hears three taps on the window.

He knows it’s unlocked. The window slides up and Tom squeezes through it, slipping his boots off so he doesn’t make too much noise when he plants his feet on the floor. He goes straight to the bed, making himself comfortable over the throw with his hands under his head.

“Lois says the police have been round,” he says quietly.

She looks down at her hands, nervously playing with the fabric of her nightgown. “I saw.”

He turns his head to where she stands. The lamp hits his face like sunlight, catching the sharp features of his face, the point of his nose and the curve of his lips. 

She nudges him closer to the wall, making some space for herself beside him. Her body rests against his. He smells like smoke and fresh air.

“What did you do this time?” she asks.

He doesn’t give her an answer. In a way she thinks she’d rather not know.

His arm falls around her and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Nights with him are often like this, quiet, just two people existing in the same space.

He turns on his side to face her. “Can I stay the night?”

“Tom,” she whispers, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Please, or I’ll have to sleep on a couch in the pub.”

“Are you mad? can you imagine what Eddie’ll do if he sees you walking out my bedroom in the morning?”

“Kitty,” he hums. He brings his hand to her face, gently stroking his thumb over her cheek. His eyes are wide and pleading. “Please.”

It’s in moments like this when she hates Tom the most, when her heart thrums in her chest and she wants nothing more than to lose herself in the feeling of his skin against hers. When their heads are so close together, all she sees are two blue eyes.

Each time she thinks she wants to close the distance between them, something stops her.

Neither of them ever dare to move closer than this.

She reaches to turn off the light and turns back to Tom. Her head falls into his chest and her arm settles around his waist. She falls asleep to the pulse of his heartbeat, the sound of his breath and the warmth of his body.

And by the time the sun shines in through the window, he’s gone.

Sunday 3rd September, 1939

She appears in the kitchen just after 11 o’clock. Her body feels heavy and her eyes are still tired. She shouldn’t have gone back to sleep after she woke up the first time.

Dad’s fiddling with the radio, Art’s pouring tea into six cups, and Eddie and mam are listening to Steive’s retelling of the previous night. He seems incredibly proud of himself, despite the fact the closest he came to kissing Connie was lighting her cigarette.

She helps Art with the tea. They all like it the same way. Strong, with one sugar and a little dash of milk. 

It might almost be a perfect morning, if dad were listening to something more uplifting than the news.

“How about some music?” she says as she hands him his cup, but he doesn’t take it. His eyes are fixed on the radio, and his hands are shaking.

“Dad…”

Art appears over her shoulder and turns up the volume. “Quiet,” he says, and the others fall silent.

A voice speaks through the crackles in the transmission, “consequently, this country is at war with Germany.”

Kitty looks at the faces around her, Eddie and Art glaring furiously, Stevie’s wide eyes and his lips fallen like a child’s, mam and dad’s haunted sorrow.

The transmission ends and she wishes it didn’t, it would save her from the grave silence in the house.

She decides to make herself busy. She washes out an empty milk bottle and goes to leave it by the door.

When she opens the door the two policemen are back, only now they’re walking out of the Bennetts’ house.

Her heart sinks. They have Tom in handcuffs.

His eyes meet hers across the road. He doesn’t make a fuss, or try to protest. He hangs his head as they walk him down the street.

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince (comment to be added)

Series taglist: (comment to be added)

[xmdrawstomuch]

BBC Sherlock but it’s a Wings of Fire AU!

I actually had this idea for a long time actually, but it took me a while to get it all drawn. In short, it is a WoF and Sherlock crossover au where they still solve mystery’s but as dragons! I haven’t seen any one else do this kind of AU so I made some designs for it. Also, I imagine the timeline is somewhere waaay after the 3rd arc so there is no animus shenanigans or anything like that (but there can be animus objects!) :D

So first off we have Skeptic!

Skeptic is WoF!Sherlock! I thought it would be fun to make him a nightwing with a bit of seawing ancestry. In terms of how he acts and does his job, it doesn’t really change all that much other than the added basic nightwing powers of blending in with the dark and fire. (I got to emphasize the fact that the Holmes siblings have no special nightwing abilities like foresight and mind reading, accept for Eurus…perhaps.)

Next up we have Hedge!

I had a really hard time think of a name for WoF!John. In the end I decided to name him after the hedge hog.( just to explain, the Sherlock fandom associated John with a hedge hog at the time lol) Hedge is a army doctor, but I imagine that since Phyrria and Pantala are advanced (but not bullets and guns advanced) that he is really good with blow darts and poisons. Which also saves his life when a dart with dragon bite viper venom hit him in the leg.

I’ll explain more about the WoF x BBC Sherlock AU in future posts, but for now have some bonus doodles:

[lobinilo]

Harry and Kasia Chase in World on Fire 1x07

we interrupt your regularly scheduled program of Eric x Ariel brainrot to give you Harry x Kasia brainrot because I love these two just as much and if they're not endgame I'm going to set something on fire 🔥

[jantostolemyheart]

Hi this is a sideblog for @the-torchwood-magician

I'll post my writing here from my ao3, jantostolemyheart

I won't be consistently updating, and I may not flesh out plot asks, but that m remains to be seen

Fandoms accepted for asks:

Torchwood

Merlin

Arrowverse (Arrow, Legends of Tomorrow, The Flash)

Supernatural

Good Omens

Doctor Who (8th doctor and after)

Loki

Our Flag Means Death

Shadow and Bone/Six of Crows

Wings of Fire

If I think of more I'll add more

Please note I am Asexual so no overtly sexual themes

Comments and rbs on fics are welcome :)

[kibabanana]

getting some sort of damage from things i love

it'll be that the writing is so abysmal that it hurts me, or it'll be so amazing and hurts me. Then the few that are in the middle that also hurt me- it all hurts me.

Except rescue bots, thank you for not hurting me.

Fuck you RB Academy.

eats rats canonically- great baby sitter tho (mostly)

[threemoonwatchers]

Same but opposite energy

[second-best-sibling]

Posted on Tiktok so might as well post it here to

[fireflowersandblood]

Letters From Home - Preview

i promised a preview so. here it is. or maybe. a first chapter. maybe. i'm not promising anything.

Pairing: Tom Bennett x f!reader

WC: 800-ish words

TWs/Warnings: strong language, adult themes

Summary: Knitting for Victory has never been bigger and Tom gets a nice, cozy package from home.

“Hey, look at this, lads!”

Tom’s head snaps up. Immediately, his lips curl into a smirk. One of the men has jumped up on a box of supplies, holding a paper in his left hand. With his right, he’s trying to ward off the poor sod who has just lost his picture. Tom can’t see what it is with all the waving about, but he’s almost entirely sure it’s a lady, maybe even a lady with very little clothing. Little else gets the men this worked up.

“Bennett, for you.”

Before he can react, a paper wrapped package has been placed in his lap. It looks almost like a wrapped Christmas gift, with the string that ties it together, and is no bigger than the Encyclopedias that Lois collected when she was younger. 

“What’s this?” Tom glances down at the package and frowns at the handwriting. It’s nothing he recognizes and he can’t think of anyone who would want to send him something. Maybe his dad, but even that seems unlikely. 

“Red Cross”, his superior explains. “Knitted socks and the like. You’re not the only one.”

Tom gives an appreciative hum and glances back down on the box. The handwriting is neat, neater than anything he could manage, and spells out his full name. To his own surprise, he runs his fingers across the letters, before he takes care to open it.

The box is filled to the brim. He finds not one, but two, pairs of navy blue socks. A matching pullover and hat, as well as a small box of hard candies in all sorts of colors. It feels strange to hold something so normal in his hands, and it reminds him of when he was smaller. His mother used to have them, he remembers, in a small tin box by the radio. She’d always give him and Lois one each, and let them pick between the fruit shaped ones.

“You got socks”, someone next to him complains, and the sigh is nothing if not envious. It makes Tom feel just a tad superior, and he immediately kicks his boots off, tears the old socks from his feet, and pulls the new pair on with a self-satisfied grin. 

“I did”, he boasts. It’s all in good fun; now that the first few months have passed, there’s not as much fighting. Everyone has seen battle one too many times to spend any time asking for trouble, even Tom. “And they’re cozy.”

Everyone close enough to have heard laughs, and Tom takes the opportunity to make sure he hasn’t missed anything. He would hate to leave another tin of candies for the rats. 

Tucked away in a corner of the box, he finds a letter. Again, with a handwriting he doesn’t recognize. Not the same as on the wrapper around the box, but something a little smaller and cleaner. He tears the envelope and is met by a sweet, light scent. It takes a moment too long to realize it must be perfume. It reminds him of the one Lois wears, and the thought makes his nose scrunch up. To take his mind off the rather unpleasant thought, he unfolds the letter.

Dear soldier,

When I’m writing this, I have no idea who you are. I might never know who you are. You, however, will know a little something about me when you’ve read this letter.

I’m the person who has made you the socks and the sweater. I hope you’ll find them useful and warm. The rationing has made it difficult to get a hold of yarn and I decided to unwind an old sweater of my father’s. I know he would much rather it be used by you.

I know our Navy must need as much as our Army, but if you have no use for two pairs of socks, perhaps you can give the second pair to a friend. I know the endless walking that the Army does tears the garments rather quickly, but two pairs might have been too much. I couldn’t help myself, when they said that the packages will be delivered to people who rarely, if ever, receive mail. I wanted you to know that there are people who think of you back home. 

The candies are made in London and remind me of my childhood. I hope it brings back pleasant memories for you, as well. 

I don’t know if people actually spray their letters with perfume, but I read it in a book once, and I thought it might lift your spirits. Pass it along and let the boys sniff it like a pair of used knickers, for all I care. 

Write, if it would please you. I would love to hear if the clothes have come to use, and make sure that you’re safe. I will pray for your safe return and a quick end to the war. 

Most love.

Tom flips the letter to find a name and an address.

“Mate, you got paper and a pen?”

[cheesuschrist-iii]

BBC Ghosts x Wings of Fire

This idea is probably for a very specific group of people but-

Would anyone be interested in hearing about my BBC Ghosts x Wings of Fire crossover where the ghosts characters are in the wof universe.

I developed this idea ages ago its just been brewing in my mind and notes app for a while.

I might post my ideas anyway but i was just curious if theres any fans of both ghosts and wof.

[evita-shelby]

Robina Chase

A moodboard for our favorite lady on World on Fire for the Robina Chase Fanclub

[sco07ut]

wings of fire ghosts part 2 !! (the main cast is here)

i’ll write up some actual lore at a later date, maybe with a drawing of some of the main characters idk

[humanpurposes]

Just for a Moment, part ii

Tom Bennett has a habit of climbing through her bedroom window whenever he's in trouble // Main Masterlist

Tom Bennett x OFC

Warnings: 18+, smut, Tom Bennett's daddy issues, mentions of war and death

Words: 5000

A/n: Also available to read on AO3.

Monday 18th September, 1939

He can’t count the time as he waits but it feels like hours, leaning against the wooden gate, fiddling with his release papers. He’s still in the same jumper he was wearing two weeks ago when those coppers came for him, and he smells like a wet dog.

He supposes he should count himself lucky, all things considered. It’s not the first time he’s been arrested, and it’s not the first time he’s been threatened with jail time. Everything had caught up to him, but he’d found an escape, like he always does.

He still can’t get the look of disappointment in Kitty’s face out of his head.

Something’s clawing at his mind, a restless feeling, like there’s something he’s forgotten but he can’t put his finger on it.

Finally he spots Lois and his dad. He starts to pull the jumper over his head. “Either of you started to smoke? I’m dying for a fag.”

Lois holds out a clean shirt for him.

“Didn’t bring my overcoat then?”

His sister glowers.

“I’m joking,” he draws out, tossing the jumper into her arms. He slips the shirt over his head and walks on. If either of them want to ask him about his little sabbatical, he’d rather it be a short and sweet conversation.

“When are you in court then?” Douglas asks, he and Lois walking a pace or so behind him.

“I’m not.”

“You’ve been on remand for two weeks, they must have charged you with something.”

“They were going to,” Tom says, bringing his arms through the sleeves and doing up the buttons on the front of the shirt, “but I said I’d join up.”

He knows why his dad hesitates. “You’d be better off in there,” he says.

“I won’t actually be joining up, dad. I’m a conscientious objector.” He knows he’s far too smug about the whole thing, it seems to irritate people, and he thinks maybe that’s why acts the way he does. 

“Since when?” Lois says.

Tom turns his head over his shoulder and grins. “About half an hour ago?”

The bus to Longsight stops just outside Gregory’s shop. He spots Kitty behind the counter through the glass. She doesn’t see him though, she’s writing something down. He asks Lois for some change and says he’ll see her and dad at home.

He takes a deep breath before he pushes on the door handle. The bell doesn’t distract Kitty from what she’s doing, but it gives him a few moments to admire the sight of her in deep concentration. She frowns rather sternly, pressing, pouting and biting her lips while she tries to think. Then with a frustrated huff she sets her pencil down and looks up.

She looks stunned at the sight of him. “Afternoon,” she says.

“Afternoon.”

“Not in prison anymore?”

He shrugs casually. “Didn’t get charged with anything.”

The edge of her mouth quirks. “And that makes it alright then?” 

He stops himself from rolling his eyes. Kitty has a remarkable talent for disguising her anger as passivity, but he knows better than to ignore it.

“Not charged on account of me joining up– for the war, like.”

“Oh right,” she says, folding her arms. “What did you come here for, toy gun and a uniform?”

“No,” he says, placing sixpenny on the counter, “usual.”

She looks at the coin, and then at him, before she turns to the shelf to get him the cigarettes and places the packet on the counter.

He’s never minded silences with Kitty before, they both seem to be able to sit in them, not having to needlessly fill the spaces. There’s nothing comfortable or familiar about this. He can see the rise and fall of her chest and her nostrils flaring when she puts the money through the till. The change rattles inside the draw as she slams it shut. 

“Cheers,” he mutters. He opens the packet and slips out a cigarette, only to realise they’d taken his lighter off him when he was arrested.

He taps it against the counter and Kitty just watches him. He has the feeling she might want him to leave.

“I’m not really joining up,” he says, “I’m gonna be a pacifist.”

“Tom Bennett the conchie?” she smirks.

Seeing her smile is like watching the sunrise, one of life’s little triumphs. He hopes he’s managed to break through the cold exterior.

“Dad’s giving me some leaflets and all,” he adds with a grin.

“You’re really committing then?” she asks, but there’s something sharp about her tone.

He feels his face soften. “What’s that mean?”

She huffs through her nose and turns her head away for a moment. “Well it’s obvious you’re only doing it because it gets you out of something you don’t want to do.”

“That’s sort of the point of pacifism, isn’t it?”

“Not in your case, no. You’re doing this to avoid going to prison.”

He scoffs, but he knows she’s right. Perfect Kitty Wheelan, she’s always right about everything.

“Would you rather that then?” he says, grimly.

“No! For Christ’s sake, of course I’m glad you’re not in prison!”

“So what’s your problem then?” he exclaims. “Because the only alternative is getting shipped off to die in some stupid war!”

He’s gone too far, he can see it in her eyes, they way they go wide and glassy. She takes a few moments to catch her breath, and when she blinks a tear rolls from each of her eyes.

“They’ve already gone, Eddie and Art. They’ve been sent to Belgium. Stevie’s not signed up yet, but he wants to.”

Two weeks. He’s been gone for two weeks and the war is already pressing on.

“Kitty…” he says softly, placing his hands on the counter, but she doesn’t reach for him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.”

She takes a slow breath. When she looks up at him his heart stops for a moment. She’s so beautiful, even when she cries.

“Tom,” she says softly, “if you’re going to do something, do it for the right reasons. Do it because you believe in it.”

His hands twitch on the counter. He looks at her with the face that she usually finds convincing, hoping somehow she’ll understand how desperate he feels, how much he wants her to just take his hand.

“Alright, Kitty!” calls the voice of Mr Gregory, appearing from the storeroom. “That’s you done for the day—” he freezes when he sees Tom.

“Thanks, Mr Gregory,” Kitty says, quickly wiping her cheeks and undoing her apron. “Are you sure you don’t want help closing?”

“I’ll be alright, lass,” the man insists, “you deserve a few hours off.”

She won’t look at him, but Tom waits for her to get her coat and her bag, and follows her out the door as she leaves.

He fiddles with one of the cigarettes he can’t light, walking beside her towards Slade Grove. His arm brushes against her shoulder every so often.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, “for shouting, it was uncalled for.”

“Yes it was,” Kitty says.

“It’s just, you know, criminal charges’ll stick with me for life, and if I die as a soldier, then what was the point in signing up in the first place?”

He watches her face wince at the mere thought, but she keeps her head up and her shoulders strong. She doesn’t say another word to him. 

An odd feeling of panic settles in his stomach. He tries to think of all the things he could say to make things right, to get her to at least look at him. The panic only mounts as they get closer to the Wheelans’ front door. 

“Kitty,” he says as she reaches into her handbag for her keys.

Her eyes slowly come to him, with a sad but expectant look.

His heart could burst. There’s so much he could say but no words come to mind, like his eyes just see her and accept the sight completely. 

“Kitty I—”

Suddenly the door swings open. Nancy Wheelan looks like she’s ready to go somewhere by the green coat and the brown leather handbag on her arm.

“Oh,” she says, looking between the two of them. “Is the shop still open?”

“Mr Gregory’s closing. If you want something you should get there quick,” Kitty says.

“No matter, I can wait until tomorrow,” Nancy says, before she turns her eyes to Tom.

“Mrs Wheelan,” he says, as inoffensively as he can.

Kitty shifts her weight on her feet.

“Tom,” the woman replies, curtly. Your father tells me you’ve been on remand.” Like mother like daughter, never ones to avoid stating the obvious.

“Oh, um, yeah,” Tom says, tucking the cigarette behind his ear. He’s hardly going to get invited in for tea by the stern look on Nancy’s face. “I’d better be off,” he says, and turns to Kitty one last time. “I’ll see you around.”

Kitty nods and quickly follows her mother inside the house. He can’t help but feel the slam of their front door is deliberate.

Douglas leaves some pamphlets out for him on the kitchen table, along with a spare lighter. He sits with his feet on the table, eyes skimming over the words, flicking the lighter open and shut. No matter how hard he tries to concentrate, his mind always seems to wander to Kitty.

When Lois comes back from her gig, torn between delight and despair at Harry’s return to Manchester, Tom sits on the windowsill in their bedroom, blowing smoke through the open window. Across the road, Kitty’s bedroom light is on, the curtains wide open.

He wonders if it’s an invitation.

“He said he loved you, didn’t he?”

Lois is tucked into her bed on the other side of the curtain that divides the room, the duvet up to her chin. “That was before he went away,” she says groggily.

“Yeah and a bloke isn’t going to say it more than once,” he says, tapping the ash from the cigarette, “not unless he’s feeling guilty.”

“It wasn’t like before,” Lois says, “he said things were different…”

“He’d just be nervous,” Tom muses. “He didn’t write, temper on you, bloody hell who wouldn't be, eh?”

There’s a flicker of a shadow in Kitty’s window.

“Why are you sticking up for him?” Lois giggles from her bed. “You don’t even like him.”

A figure blocks out the light and then she’s there. 

Look at me.

She slides the window closed and turns the lock. 

Come on, look at me.

She reaches up for the curtains and before she draws them, she turns her head to their house. He lowers his cigarette. She’s looking at him, dead in the eyes, he’s sure of it, even if his face will be hard to see.

She closes the curtains and the light switches off soon after that.

He huffs through his nose and collapses onto his front on the bed. “I’m sticking up for you,” he says, taking another drag, “couldn’t cope for a minute if you went wobbly. Neither could dad.”

“Of course you could, you’d look after each other.”

He doubts that. He’s always been one to disappear when dad has one of his episodes, or sits in his bedroom, crying into mum’s old cardigans because the smell of her is starting to fade. It’s too much. It’s frustrating. It makes him want to shout and scream because why can’t dad just pull himself together? Instead he slips out the backdoor, smokes in the alleyway behind the houses, hunches himself over a pint in the pub, or finds himself in Kitty’s bedroom, just for a few moments of peace.

“You’re the one he needs, Lois. Me…” He pouts his lips as he takes another drag and inhales the smoke into his chest. It burns a little until he breathes it out. 

Kitty doesn’t let him smoke in her bedroom, in case her parents or one of the lads found out, but she says she likes the smell of it. She muttered it once, about a year ago, when he’d shown up at her window with a flask of whisky he’d filled from dad’s stash under his bed. They drank while her parents were at the pub and the boys were having some kind of party downstairs, until all they could manage were giggles that left them scarce for air as they tried to stay quiet. She curled into his arms that night and nuzzled into his neck, pulling herself into him with every breath she took.

“Because you smell like you,” she’d said in an airy voice, “Like fags and sweat and sweets.”

He kissed her temple, then her cheek, then her neck, but she was already falling asleep by the time his lips grazed the corner of her mouth. 

If she remembers that night, she never mentions it, and she’s never tried to kiss him back. He doesn’t blame her.

“... I’m just a bloody nuisance.” 

Tuesday 19th September, 1939

He comes back from the recruitment office with his hands in his pockets. Some pacifist he makes, almost starting a fight in the queue. He can’t even laugh at himself. He heard the word “coward” and he knew he couldn’t go through with it.

As he walks past the Wheelan’s house, he sees the light in the front room isn’t on. Usually that’s where the boys all sit, but with Eddie and Art gone the house must be quiet these days. He wonders what Kitty will make of the recruitment papers in his back pocket.

When he makes his way into the kitchen, Lois is busy with ironing, and his dad is looking at the papers through his spectacles. 

“Kałuszyn’s a German victory,” Douglas mutters as Tom drapes his jacket over the opposite seat. “Only took a day.”

“How was the recruitment office?” Lois asks.

Tom exhales through his mouth and places the papers in front of his dad, new but already folden and crinkled.

Once Douglas has read what he needs to, he lowers his spectacles.

“The navy? The blood navy? You can’t even steer a pedalo.”

“At least it’s not the army,” Tom says with a shrug, “and I’m not going to prison, so…”

“I must be stupid,” Douglas says, “I thought you’d actually become a pacifist, really believed in it.”

“I don’t really believe in anything for long, dad,” Tom says, curling his fist on the table in front of him. “At least I’m fighting on the right side, at least give me that!”

“Everybody thinks that, every war that’s ever been fought,” Douglas says.

“Yeah well this one’s different.”

“Every war’s different!” Douglas bellows, tossing his spectacles onto the table. “Until it’s the same.”

Tom hangs his head. He knows he’s not a coward, and yet he’d still found himself switching to a different line once it had all calmed down. He knew he was stubborn, but this, signing up for a war to prove a point to a stranger… the worst part is he’s stubborn enough to go through with it.

“Lois, talk some sense into him!” their father says.

Lois can be so quick to anger, but with dad she always manages to stay perfectly calm. “I can’t do that dad. I think he’s right to join up.”

Tom can’t bring himself to look up, even when he hears his dad scoff at her.

“At least he’s getting out in the world,” she says. 

“Yeah, to get shot or blown up!”

Tom snatches up the recruitment papers as he stands, reaching for his jacket on the back of the chair. Lois’s eyes are a silent plea begging him to stay but he knows if he’ll just make things worse.

As he slams the kitchen door his dad shouts after him, “and do the same to lads no older than him, who have no more idea why they’re fighting either!”

He walks to the end of the red brick wall, where the alleyway leads to the main street. With his back against the wall and his head thrown back, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and lights a cigarette. 

It’s all bollocks, he concludes. The war, the signups, the idyllics and the madmen signing their own death warrants. He’s no righteous pacifist, but he’s not exactly a hero either. There’s no right side for him, not really.

He rattles some change in his pocket; he could use a pint, but he thinks there’s somewhere else he’d rather be. So he waits at the end of the alley, until the street is silent and he’s sure most of the residents will have gone to bed.

When he walks out onto the street he looks up at Kitty’s window. The curtains are closed but the window is open and the lights are on.

He’s well used to climbing up there by now. He avoids the view from the window to the lounge and pulls himself up the drainpipe and bay window. For the last little bit he has to slot his feet between the bricks, put his hands on the ledge below Kitty’s window and lift himself onto it. 

There are two voices on the other side of the curtains. He holds his breath and awkwardly looks around the street, but thankfully there’s no one around to spot him.

“I thought you were going to wait a bit longer,” Kitty says.

“I can’t keep putting it off,” Stevie replies, “not while Eddie and Art are out there risking their lives. Even Connie says she and Lois are auditioning for ENSA. We’ve all got to do our bit.”

“But we need you here, too,” Kitty says.

“I’m not having this conversation with you again.” The door handle rattles as someone reaches to open it.

There’s a pause, then Stevie sighs. “I’ll stop by the shop on my way home.”

She doesn’t reply.

“Night, Kitty,” Stevie says.

She grumbles back, “night.”

The door closes. Kitty releases a shaky breath that makes his heart ache. Her footsteps move across the floor towards the bed. He hears her sheets rustle and the light switch off. Surely she realises she’s left the window open?

He cautiously pushes the curtains back with a slight scraping noise of the rings against the curtain frame. He swings his legs inside and ducks his head under, kicking off his boots before he moves towards the bed, careful to avoid the floorboards he knows are creaky.

Kitty lies facing the wall and close to it, leaving a small amount of space on the mattress beside her.

He takes off his jacket, belt and jumper, leaving on his slacks and shirt, and lifts a corner of her duvet, slotting in against her back. He places the hand that isn’t underneath him on her arm, tracing up and down, along the texture of her skin.

Kitty hums dreamily. She takes his hand and clutches it against her stomach, so his arm falls around her waist. He holds her tighter, bringing her further into him until he can feel the curve of her spine against his shirt.

“I’m sorry I was such an arse to you earlier,” she mutters. 

He brushes the hair from her neck, his eyes inches from her bare skin. Her nightgown is starting to slip down her shoulder too. She smells sweet, like red sweets and vanilla perfume. 

“It’s my own stupid fault,” he says, softly, but they’re so close she’ll hear every word. “Besides, didn’t even go through on the pacifist thing. I signed up for the navy this morning.”

Her hair flicks in his face as she turns to her other side. His arm settles back on her waist and the tip of her nose barely brushes his own.

“You did what?”

“Signed up for the navy,” he says.

“You did not,” she breathes.

He swallows his disappointment. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? For him to find a principle, to do something for the right reasons?

“What are you so upset for?” he says, “I’m the one who has to go, not you.”

She nods, but he can see the tears welling in her eyes.

“And Stevie’s signing up too,” he realises.

She huffs, the way she usually does when she’s upset but she pretends not to be. “That’s it then, once you and him are gone, I’ll have no one.”

He takes her hand and brings it between their chests, clasping it tightly. “Oh my pretty Kitty,” he grins, knowing how much she hates it when he calls her that, “you’ve got your mum and dad, you’ve got mates. Dad and Lois adore you. You’ve got your job, you’ve got a life here.”

“You’re a part of my life too,” she says.

It knocks the breath from his lungs.

“I’ve signed up now. Couldn’t take it back even if I wanted to.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Kitty says.

His chest feels like it might crush under the weight of it all. “But you said—”

“I know what I said, just… why’d you have to get yourself caught up in all these messes?”

He sees it in the way she looks at him, not exasperated or angry just, sad. He’s never really understood why she seems to take his mistakes so personally.

He turns his head further into the pillow and moves his tongue over his teeth. “Some bloke at the recruitment office said I was a coward for queuing up with the conchies.”

Kitty’s lip trembles. “So what?” she whispers.

“Squared up to him, didn’t I? But when it came to putting my name down… I don’t know, I just couldn’t do it. See the grief dad gets for his paper, what would people think of me if I stayed home while men are laying down their lives?”

Her chest rises and falls as she sighs, slowly, deeply. 

“Maybe it’s me,” he says. “Maybe I’m a bad person.”

“You’re not a bad person,” she says, placing her hand on his jaw, fingertips stoking lightly over his neck. “You’re just…”

“Just what?”

She smiles sadly. “You’re just stupid.”

He smiles back, and nudges his forehead against hers. The rest of the house is so quiet he worries he’s breathing too loudly.

“Kitty,” he whispers, sliding his hand along her waist and into her back, pulling her closer, closer.

“Yes?” 

His palm maps every curve and detail along her body, her back, her hips, her rear, her thighs, the feeling of her skin and the way she shudders at his touches. 

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers.

Her smile is wide and unashamed. She puts her arms over his shoulders and gently presses her lips to his. 

They had kissed before, once or twice when they were kids. Back then they thought it was hilarious, another secret they could keep with each other, and they felt so grown up at even just the briefest peck of their lips.

Kissing Kitty now is unlike anything he’s done before. It’s slow and steady, and he savours every moment of it, the softness of her mouth, her hands in his hair, the little hum she gives when he kisses her neck and the way she arches her back when he slips his thigh between her legs.

She follows his lead at first, but finds her stride soon enough, kissing him deeper, holding him closer as she slowly starts to rut her hips against him, grinding into his thigh.

He whispers her name into her mouth, desperately squeezing her waist through her nightgown as he feels himself becoming hard against her stomach. And it hurts. Everything about her consumes him, sets him on edge and lulls him into a calm and assured warmth.

Her hands slip between them, unsure but determined fingers undoing the buttons on his shirt. He catches on and quickly has it over his head, leaving it forgotten on the floor.

She pauses, her eyes, palms and fingertips running over the bare skin revealed to her, the light patch of hair on his chest, the lines of his muscles, the small moles running down his torso and the scar on his bicep where he’d broken his arm years ago. 

She slips further, brushing over the bulge in his slacks. Tom clenches his teeth and places a hand over hers, bucking under her touch. 

“Can you take these off?” she says, and with that doe-eyed look, how could he ever refuse her?

He lifts his hips and shuffles his slacks past his ankles, and soon those are on the floor too. He looks back to Kitty, with a pleased grin.

She teases her fingers over the fabric of his boxers. “Those too?”

He removes the final layer, smiling at Kitty’s apparent fascination. She cautiously feels along his naval and his hips, until she comes to his cock. She traces her fingertips over it, already half-hard.

He positions her hand around it and guides her to stroke up and down. Their eyes meet. Even through the low light and the dreamy haze of his own want, she’s beautiful, lips parted, brows in a wanting frown, and the corners of her mouth curling up. When she brushes her thumb over the tip, he thinks he might come there and then.

He leans up, kisses her cheek and whispers in her ear. “I want to see you too.”

She comes to her knees and lifts her nightgown over her head. He leans his head against the headboard, a contented sigh leaving his lips at the sight of her. She’s perfect. How could she be anything less? 

He reaches for her hips, bringing her to straddle him. Never parting from her body, his hand slides along her waist to one of her breasts, squeezing gently and dragging his thumb over her perked nipple. He starts to guide her with his other hand, rocking her hips back and forth, dragging her wet centre along his cock. He bites down on his lip to stop himself from groaning at the little whimper that catches in her throat, and the feeling of her gliding against him, so warm and practically soaked. 

She braces herself against his chest. “Tom,” she whines, though it’s barely above a breath. He can feel her trying to move faster, desperate for friction. “I want more, please…”

He hushes her, placing a finger to her lips. He turns his head to the floor, impressed with himself that his slacks are just within reach. He takes a packet from one of the pockets and tears it open with his teeth, sliding the condom along his length.

He leans up again and catches her lips in a gentle kiss. “Are you alright with this?” he says, “we don’t have to.”

Kitty holds his face in her hands as she lifts her hips. “I want to,” she utters.

Tom positions his tip to her entrance and holds her as she slowly starts to sink down. He can’t help the low groan that sounds in his throat no matter how much he tries to resist, but she’s so tight, so perfect.

She gasps and clenches her hands in his hair, but is determined to keep taking him, until their hips meet and he bottoms out. They stay like that for as long as she needs, catching her breath, getting used to the feeling of him inside her.

“Good girl,” he hums, tracing his thumbs over her stomach. “How do you feel?”

Kitty’s eyes flutter and she nods. “It hurts a little, but it feels good.”

“This should help,” he says, circling his thumb over her pearl.

She clasps a hand over her mouth as she lets out a short gasp and braces herself against him again. 

“Fuck, does that feel nice, pretty Kitty?” he grins.

Her moans are starting to make too much noise. If they go any further they might wake up her whole family. Not fancying having to explain a black eye or any broken limbs to his dad or commanding officer, he takes Kitty in his arms and brings her to lie down beside him again, keeping his cock nestled inside her.

He brings her head close to his shoulder. “I’m going to start moving, tell me if you want to stop.”

She nods, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"And I know it feels good but you need to be quiet too, yeah?"

"Yes," she utters, "please, just..."

He starts to fuck her slowly, finding a rhythm that ensures the bed doesn’t make any noise as it rocks. He draws her pleasure from her gradually, his cock dragging through her and his fingers circling over her pearl. He can feel it when she starts to clench around him, her hips moving against him to match his thrusts. 

They fall apart together, silencing their moans into each other’s necks.

The quiet of the night feels precious; two people existing in the same space, breathing the same air, sharing the same heat, clinging to each other like they’ve always done. 

She kisses him again, messily, like she’s drunk. Somewhere in it she loses her focus, her mouth slides along his jaw and she giggles into his neck.

“Are you tired?” he says.

“I think so,” she mumbles.

“Come here then.” He slides slowly out of her and turns onto his back, one arm draped over her shoulders. She leans into him, keeping a hand against his skin, over his heart.

Kitty snores softly in her sleep but he doesn’t mind it. 

He visits her every night for the next week, until he’ll have to leave for his training. He waits until all the lights in the Wheelans’ house are off, then sneaks in through the window and discards his clothes before he climbs into her bed. They kiss and fuck as quietly as they can, until they’re both breathless and too tired to stay awake.

On his last night in Longsight, once Kitty is fast asleep, her breath fluttering against his chest and his fingers stroking over her hair, it occurs to him that he might love her. But he’s seen what a mess Harry and Lois made, saying stupid things like that before one of them went away. So he lets her sleep, and stay in blissful ignorance. 

Tags (comment to be added to either)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya

Series taglist: @hanula18 @azxulaa